What You Taught Me
by bitterberries
Summary: The stars are at their brightest during the winter. Jerza. Writing exercise.


He remembers that, to feel pain is to be alive, to remember where he is.

Jellal breathes through his nose and grips the edge of the mattress. He smells of lavender and sweat and his lungs and mind are raw with cold January air. The bedroom is always dark at night but his dreams have made it darker. The abyss created by his own hands cradles him between its bones.

 _(What are you looking at, child?)_

He forgets where he is again and easily mistakes the hardwood underneath his feet for dusted rock so cold that it burns.

Only, the dust is not dust—just humans, conditioned to be dust. And they have the kind of hope that looks like petals wilting in the winter, ripping in the spring—lavender flowers away from home, rotting at the edges. They tuck their broken flowers away in the ripped folds of their pockets and tuck their bodies into the shadows. Moonlight makes the fine lines of their excrements easier to see, and smell, and they've wanted to gouge their eyes for a long time now. Jellal knows where he is. He takes his hand from the barred window to find rust colored mold smeared across his blisters. Would they let him wash his hands? Or remove them for him? Do it now or do it later. _As long as they do it_ , he thinks. His hands have been numb for days.

Jellal manages to lock the door behind him. He shivers as he turns the faucet to the far right and no, it _isn't_ the sea and he never pretends that it is, because the water is not as polluted or salty and it hurts immediately, but—

 _To feel pain is to be alive_ , Jellal thinks, as the water sears his back. _To feel pain_ , is to be alive. Someone told him that a long time ago and he doesn't remember who, but he thinks he hates them.

He grabs the neck of the shower head and presses his forehead against the tiles, choosing to boil in silence. Warm air pumps through him. After a few minutes there is a soft patterned sound beyond the curtains and something even softer that follows. The steam thickens until he can't see. Until he—

 _(I know you can hear me.)_

He wants to breathe. He turns the faucet the other way and holds his breath until he thinks it's safe to sigh. His backside stings, his lungs throb—the sound turns insistent, and he steps from the shower.

He doesn't keep track of how long it takes for him to get dressed and leave the bathroom. When he does, Erza is sitting up in bed, staring down at her phone. She raises her head.

"You took your time," she says. "Was it bad?"

"Yeah," he walks forward and climbs into bed. "Sorry."

"Are you alright?"

"I'm fine now."

"...I've turned on the heater."

"Thank you."

He finds her hand underneath the sheets. She falls asleep in minutes, but he never follows her. An hour later, she calls to him again and follows him for a second time. The path is easier, now; he is covered in moon and he wants to be found. Erza joins him in the middle of their bedroom floor, and when her lips press against his spine, he remembers that to feel—it doesn't have to be pain—is to live and shares his blanket with her. There are enough stars for the both of them.

"You like depriving me of sleep."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be."

"Did you know that stars are at their brightest during the winter? I can feel them from here."

Erza breathes into his neck, smelling like lavender. "Grandpa Rob would tell me that. Whenever it got too cold."

"I see."

"I miss him."

"I know."

"...I thought you didn't like the cold."

"Not all of it," he murmurs. "I like this."

* * *

 _"What are you looking at, child?"_

 _"..."_

 _"I know you can hear me."_

 _"Sorry, I… I didn't think that was you."_

 _"Who did you think that was?"_

 _"…"_

 _"What were you looking at?"_

 _"I...don't know. I don't know what they're called."_

 _"What do you mean?"_

 _"Those. Up there. In the sky. Don't you see them?"_

 _"The stars?"_

 _"They're called stars? I didn't know that."_

 _"Would you like to know more about them?"_

 _"..."_

 _"Jellal?"_

 _"Yes. I would."_

* * *

Note:

 _So I needed to practice with more poetic forms of writing. And present tense. This clearly isn't my forte and it's not my favorite thing that I've written because you can tell where I got tired and lazy but I'm still satisfied enough to post it. Thanks for reading._


End file.
